


Cartography

by nekosd43



Series: Scar Stories [2]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Episode 60 Spoilers, Gen, Memories, POV Second Person, Scars, Vignette, tags are in the chapter notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-01 10:46:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 15,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10188158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nekosd43/pseuds/nekosd43
Summary: Magnus Burnsides had a lot of scars.He remembers every single one.A series of vignettes detailing the stories behind them.  A companion piece to my other story "Your Scars are a Roadmap."I will put tags for each story in the notes for the chapter, so check the notes to see if that vignette is going to be your jam before you read it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mentions of blood and injury, Julia and Steven are in this, an animal is in peril and is injured/dies.

It’s a small scar.  It’s faded with time, but you can still see it if you look.  A thin scratch mark above your left wrist, running across diagonally.  There used to be more of them, but the rest have smoothed over.  

All that’s left is one thin line.

You are a young man who is new to this town, but it was the worst storm Raven’s Roost had ever seen.  

You had been warned to stay indoors, but after realizing Steven needed some lamp oil or you’d be spending the storm in the dark, you had volunteered to venture out.  The wind whipped your cloak away almost as soon as you stepped out the door, and the rain drenched through your clothes almost immediately.  It was miserable, and you were shivering as you walked back from the general store.  You couldn’t wait to get back inside.

You’re not sure how you heard the sound over the roar of the wind.

You wonder if maybe you’re just naturally drawn when someone cries for help.

Regardless, as you walked past the runoff next to the Hammer and Tongs, you heard it.

The tiniest sound of distress.

It’s a kitten.  At least, it could be?  It’s very small, very ratty.  Probably only a few weeks old.  You think it’s white, but it’s so covered in mud that you can’t tell anymore.  You know that it has been caught up in the water pouring into the ditch, probably carried away from it’s mother.  It’s on the far side of the runoff, slowly slipping down into the rushing water below.

You don’t hesitate.

Dropping the jar of lamp oil, you slide down the muddy slope and land in the knee deep stormwater.

As you reach out your hands to grab the critter, you realize that it could sit in the palm of your hand.   _It’s a runt_.  Putting your right hand forward to stabilize yourself against the sides of the ditch, you carefully reach to snatch it up in your left hand.

Instantly, sharp needles of pain.

The kitten has swiped at you, digging its claws into your arm.  It’s little, but it’s _fierce_.  You already see watery blood pouring down your arm.  You grab it around the middle, and it digs both of it’s front paws into your wrist, dragging the needlepoints across your skin.  It hurts a lot.

You do not let go.

You struggle to climb out of the muddy ditch one handed and find after several attempts that the rainwater is melting away any chances at a foothold you have.  Knee-deep in water, you cradle the cat against your chest, letting it tear into you.

You spend thirty minutes in the mud.

For some reason, you’re not shivering anymore.

Julia comes to find you.  She and Steven were worried sick, but the moment she sees you, she understands.

She always understands.

You take the kitten in and wash off the mud.  Julia washes the blood off your arm.  The scratches are nasty, but she says they will heal.

They do.

All but two of them.

The kitten didn’t make it until morning.  You feel the moment it stops breathing, because you are still holding it.  Steven said that dying warm and dry was better than the fate the gods meant for it.  Even if it was only for a small while, he said you made a difference.

You can’t sleep for a week.

There is a cut deep in your heart.

And a cut deep in your arm.

That one becomes a scar.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little fluffy because I'm about to download today's episode and CRY FOR HOURS GRIFFIN DON'T HURT MY SON.
> 
> Contains: Vague descriptions of a rash. Possibly triggering for self-harm if you find itching or scratching to fall under that category. Taako. Could be shippy, but it's meant to be platonic in this one.

The rash had been dark, but the mark it left behind doesn’t look too different than your skin.  It’s the texture that lets you know that it’s a scar.  A strange smoothness on your hip, slightly upraised, barely discolored.  You know eventually it will disappear altogether.

But you’ll probably remember that day for the rest of your life.

Apparently the plant is called  _ Sae’ivui. _  You never saw it, but later Taako told you the rash looked familiar enough that he could guess what caused it.  An innocuous plant that sometimes grows under old trees.  When pressure is put on it’s leaves, it releases an oil that can seep through clothes.  If it touches skin, it can leave blisters and rashes for days.

And it itches like you’re on fire.

It turns out you sat on one.

You didn’t  _ realize _ you had sat on it until a few hours later though.  Sure, your hip itched, but you were a hairy guy and you tended to scratch.  But you were out shopping and couldn’t just  _ politely  _ stick your hands down your pants.  So you scratched with the handle on your axe or rubbed against the edges of tables in an attempt to get some relief.

It only got worse as time went on.

Eventually it was  _ maddening _ .  You literally thought your skin was falling off, but you couldn’t just rip off your clothes in the middle of the Fantasy Costco.  There were  _ rules _ .  

But your hip was burning and any subtle itching you did helped for only a moment before suddenly makingit so much worse.  You’d feel relief as you dug Railsplitter’s handle in, but when you pulled away the burning would intensify.

You were about to reach the point where cutting your body off at the waist sounded like a good idea when you made it back to the dorm.

Your pants came off as soon as the door was shut

“Um…” Taako muttered from the couch, “Okay Magnus I… Whoa holy shit.”

Your whole right hip was an angry red and black.  Even though you had your Fantasy MeUndies on, you could see it sprawling out, up your side and down your leg, and you wanted to dig your nails in and  _ go to town _ on it.  Just really scratch the fucker up.  You lurch your hands to the side.

“No wait!”

You pause and stare.  Taako had jumped up and run over.

“Don’t  _ touch  _ it you idiot, you’re just going to make your  _ hands _ itchy,” he sighs, grabbing your hand.

He leads you into your shared bathroom and runs some water in the tub.

“Okay take off the undies.”

“No!” you stammer, trying really hard not to bite your lip to distract from the pain in your side.

“Please, I’ve seen your business down there before,” Taako laughed, rolling his eyes, “You gotta put medicine on that shit, it’s going to scar if you leave it too long.”

“How long is too long?”

“How long have you been itchy?”

“Like two hours or so?

“Nevermind, you’re definitely getting a scar,” Taako laughed.  “Come on.  Get in the tub.”

You reluctantly lower yourself into the water, which is instantly a mistake because the burning sensation jumps from irritating and painful to the literal surface of the sun.

Maybe you scream a little.

You’re about to plunge your hands into the water and just keep scratching, when Taako grabs you by the wrist.

“You can’t touch it my dude,” Taako said, “I know it’s hard but  _ trust _ me on this one.  You get that oil on your hands, and then your whole bod is gonna be Itch City.”

Still holding your wrist delicately, he opens a drawer under the sink with his free hand and pulls out some old potion bottles.

“Do you know how to treat it?” you ask.

“It’s one of those things that just has to wash off,” Taako muttered, “But I can put a numbing agent in the water so you feel it less.”  He pulls the stopper out of a blue bottle and tips a few drops into your bathwater.

You do feel it less.

You feel like you’re a few miles away from the sun instead of directly on top of it.

Taako is fishing another bottle out from under the sink.

“Put your hands here.”  He taps the side of the tub, and you grip the lip tightly.

Without saying anything, Taako opens up a tiny bottle of green liquid.

It’s nail polish.

Carefully, he starts to spread the polish on your fingernails.

You focus all of your attention on Taako’s movements.  If you think about anything else you might scream again, and this was already embarrassing enough.  You simply let yourself center on the feeling of that small brush on your nails, moving quickly but neatly.

Later that night you would realize that this was Taako showing you something special about himself.  That this was Taako’s way to center, to bring himself back to reality.

But in the moment all you can think is  _ Great, now if I scratch myself, I’ll get green paint everywhere. _

You tighten your grip and your knuckles whiten, but Taako doesn’t stop painting.  He adds another coat just when you think he may be finished.  Then a clear coat.  Then another coat of that.

Eventually you realize you can’t feel the rash anymore.

The redness stayed for a few days, but the itching was done by that evening.  Taako and you had a laugh about it, and then silently agreed to not speak of it again.

But you’d have a reminder of that night stay with you long after the paint had chipped away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains: Carey Fangbattle. Discussions of Julia, and guilt. The meaning of love.

The marks on your black blend together.

A canvas of roughened edges formed from carrying wood on your bare shoulders.  Honestly, you were shocked they were even capable of being scarred any more than they already were.  Years of bark rubbing against them had taken their toll, and you had always been less careful with the marks you couldn’t see.

Turns out, you’re still mortal.

“Shit Burnsides, that’s… yikes.”

Carey Fangbattle is sitting behind you as you pull off a slashed shirt.  Training had gotten a little intense today.  Normally Carey had surgical precision with her knives, but both of you had been a little distracted.  There was a lot to think about.

You’d just gotten back from Refuge after all.

“Is it bad?” you say, trying to turn your neck so you could see it.

“Oh no it’s,” she pauses. “I’ve seen worse.”

“What’s the problem then?”

“Your back is like a warzone.”

You never really looked at your back.  You knew about the ones on your shoulder, and you knew about the ones on your sides, but the center of your back?  You couldn’t see it, so you didn’t think about it.

“There seriously should be a limit to how many scars one human should have,” she laughed, and you felt her scaled hand rub some ointment over your newest addition.  It stings, but her scales honestly feel worse.  It’s like rubbing sandpaper into the wound.  You wince.

“Carey I appreciate it but…”

“I know,” she sighed, “but I can’t  _ not _ put something on it, and no way are you going to be able to reach it.”

She rubs her fingers up and down the center of your spine, right at the point where her knife had been a few minutes ago.

It was dumb really.  There was no reason why you couldn’t have dodged it.  You’d been getting better about avoiding attacks, and Carey had been a really good teacher for that.  Being small, she couldn’t take heavy hits like you could.  Fighting smart was the only way she could make it.

You weren’t fighting smart at all when you let your guard down.

“So… what were you thinking about?” she asked.

You don’t respond, because you were thinking about Julia, and you weren’t sure if you were ready to unload that on Carey.  You weren’t ready to unload that on anyone.

“Just… a girl I knew.”

“Was she pretty?”

“Very.”

Carey pulled her hands away to grab a bandage.

“Hey Magnus?”

“Yeah Carey?” You turn your head to look over your shoulder again.  The dragonborn is staring intensely at the small of your back.

“How do you  _ do _ it?”

You weren’t really sure what to say to that.

“Uh…”

“I mean, how do you keep going after… everything that’s happened to you?” she continued, “I don’t know specifics, but no human has skin this fucked up looking without a lot of pain.”

You turn away.

“Some of it was good pain.”

“ _ Good _ pain?”

“Yeah like… some of it was from doing things I loved.  Some of it was from protecting people I love.  Not all scars come from tragedy.”

“But that’s the thing,” she sighed, “How do you put other people before yourself?  I can’t…  I have a really hard time doing that.”

“Carey you’re a great person,” you comfort, turning.

“But I’m not ‘I’d take an arrow for you’ great,” she said.

“Are you thinking someone you know is going to be shot?” Magnus questioned.

“No I-” Carey’s nostrils flared, which you had learned is her way of frowning.  “I don’t know if I could ever love someone that much I’d be willing to  _ die _ for them.”

“This is about Killian?”

Carey looks away.

“Maybe it’s just I don’t think I  _ would  _ if the time came.”

You were struck with the realization that Carey was asking for help.  Not outright, but in her own way.  You wondered when you guys got so close.  It had happened so gradually.

“Love isn’t about whether or not you’ll take a hit for someone if that time comes,” you said.

“You don’t have someone  _ you’d _ die for?” Carey said, the hint of a smile.

“Yeah but… she died first.  A few years ago,” you whispered.

Carey looked up at you with a start.

“I didn’t…”

“You can say in your heart ‘I’d die for this person,’ but the reality is, you can’t,” you explained, and your heart feels heavy with that truth.  No matter how much you wanted to take every blow, you weren’t there to take the one that mattered.  And maybe you weren’t supposed to.  “You can only love and love until you can’t anymore.”

“Love until you can’t anymore, huh,” she repeated.

“I think Killian  _ wouldn’t _ want you to jump in front of a sword for her,” you continue, “I think that might make her sad in the end.  I’d think she’d rather know that you would  _ be _ there for her, if she ever...”  You can’t bring yourself to finish.

You  _ weren’t  _ there when Julia died.

You honestly hate yourself a little bit for it.  And you know that would kill her all over again.

Julia would adore Carey.  They’d be great friends.

You wonder if she’s watching you.

You wonder if she wants you to forgive yourself.

“Thanks Magnus.”

You can feel tears burning in your eyes, so you rub them with the heel of your hand.  Carey puts a hand on your shoulder.

“I’m thinking about using that ring you made for me.”

You look at her, and Carey is looking away.  Distracted.  She absently squeezes your arm.

“I just want to make sure I’m… sure.”

“Have you and Killian been talking about it?”

Carey nodded.  “We’re both on board, but nobody has tried to make it official yet.  We’ve been dancing around it, I think one of us needs to take the leap.”

You remember that same feeling, the feeling of being on the edge and being excited and scared.  Of course, Julia had asked first, because Julia was sure way sooner than you were.  Julia was confident and ready for anything.

Julia would have liked Carey.

“Carey rushes in then?”

She removes her hand from your shoulder and punches you with it.  It doesn’t hurt, but you pretend it does.

“Carey, I think you and Killian will be just fine,” you confess.  “You’re lucky to have each other.”

“Yeah… your girl was lucky to have you.”

You never get to see the scar it left, but Carey tells you about it.  It's right in the small of your back, and it's perpendicular to your spine, like a cross.  It’s a memory the two of you share forever.  The small scar she left on her best friend the day she asked the love of her life to marry her.  You talk about it at their wedding reception, and everyone laughs.  You laugh too.

Love means being there for people when you can be.  Love means loving as much as you can while you can.

Not all scars come from tragedy.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Julia one, this one is mostly fluffy. Not about a serious injury for a change! WILL PROBABLY ALL GET JOSSED NEXT EPISODE BUT WHATEVER FOR THIS MOMENT JUST LET ME HAVE THIS GRIFFIN.  
> I don't think there's anything worth tagging. A story about how Magnus learned to write, and got a callus from it.

A lump on your left ring finger, worn in with time, reminds you of home.

You had never been one for book learning.  You knew enough to be able to read at a very basic level, and that had been enough to get you through.  There isn’t much academic writing when you’re a carpenter.

Julia was shocked all the same.

“Sweetie I just need you to sign your name here,” she said, handing you an order form she had been working on.

You took the paper in hand and stared.  You skimmed it, only understanding half of it, but you understood enough to find the place she wanted.  She lazily passed you the quill she was using as she looked over another form.

You grabbed the feather, but didn’t know what to do with it.

“Jules I…” you don’t know what to say.

She looks at you, holding the quill in your fist like a child would, and a moment of realization passes through her eyes.

“Maggie… do you know how to write?”

You had been dating a few months.  It was a natural conclusion, you were both head over heels for each other.  But there was still a lot to learn about each other.  Today was the day Julia learned you had the writing skills of a toddler.  You find yourself turning red.

“Oh honey it’s okay,” Julia said, rushing out from behind her desk to put her hands on your shoulder.  “I didn’t know.  That was arrogant of me to assume, I’m really lucky mama taught me before she passed away.  Here.”

She grabs you by the wrist and leads you to the desk.

“I can’t sign it for you, but I can help you through it.”

She delicately places the quill in your hand.  It feels weird, and she arranges your fingers to hold it properly.  She then gently guides you to the order form.  You both pause.

“Can you spell your name?”

You nod.  She doesn’t say it in a hurtful way, but it still makes you feel a little small.

“M A G N U S,” you say slowly.

“What about ‘Burnsides’?”

You shake your head.

“Okay well let’s  _ start _ with Magnus.”

She puts her hand on top of yours and moves it.

The M is shaky.  The A doesn’t close properly at the top like you know it should.  The tail of the G trails off.  The N is squat.  The U is okay but your hand shakes at the end and makes a weird mark on the end of it.  The S is a nightmare, you don’t want to even think about it.

All in all, you feel like an idiot.

“Jules can’t I just put an X?  That’s what I’ve done in the past.”

“Oh is that what daddy taught you to do?” she laughed, “Typical, Dad can’t write either.  I should have known.”

You stare at your name, which looks more like “Mugnus” if you’re being generous.  You don’t even want to think about tackling “Burnsides”.

“Do I have to sign it today?”

“No, you know what,” Julia replied, “I think this is good enough for the client.”

She takes the paper and adds it to the stack of finished receipts.

It occurs to you in that moment that Juila hand writes every order and receipt for the shop.  By herself.  You had never thought about it before, but those words did not just  _ appear _ .  She wrote them.  Hundreds of them.  She did all the calculations too, figuring how much to order or how much things cost in her head.  You realize that Steven probably would go under without her.

You’re envious of her brilliance.

“I think it’s quitting time, you want to get something to eat?” she asks.

“Julia can you…” She’s so brilliant.  She makes you want to be brilliant too, to deserve someone as clever and intelligent as her.  “Can you teach me?”

“Absolutely Maggie,” she smiles, “How about we practice one hour after dinner every night?”

You nod.

She’s left handed.  You find that the pen works well (or equally bad?) in both of yours, but you copy her anyway and hold it in your left.  She laughs and tells you the left hand is the hand of evil in some cultures.  

You tell her if she uses her left hand, it’s clearly the most  _ good _ thing in the universe.

It takes months of practice before you are able to write your letters without your hand shaking.  One hour a night with her by candlelight, copying her movements, is not enough.  Sometimes you practice on your own when she’s gone to sleep.

You practice writing her name a lot.  The J is particularly difficult for you, but you want to get it perfect.

She corrects your hands all the time.

“No, if you hold the quill like that you’ll get a callus,” she says, adjusting your fingers so the pen isn’t resting against them.  But as soon as you start writing, the feather slips back in place.  Eventually she just allows it.  The extra stability of your finger helps, even if it will leave a mark.

And it does.

Soon you’re able to sign your name without any shakiness.  Your writing is big and blocky, not at all like her thin, delicate script, but you’re proud of it all the same.  You don’t always like using the lowercase letters - some of them are too similar for you and your get them confused easily.  Julia says that it’s more important that you be understood than it is to be “correct”.

Eventually you realize that she has given you a powerful gift, and you don’t know how to thank her.

So you try something different.

You leave the letter on the table for her to find while you’re out.  It took you all night to right, but you’re so proud.  You threw away a bunch of versions of it because they weren’t  _ perfect _ .  Anything less than perfect for Julia wouldn’t do.

The letter reads

> _ DEAR JULIA _
> 
> _ THANK YOU FOR TEACHING ME _
> 
> _ YOU ARE THE MOST PRETTY GIRL _
> 
> _ AND VERY SMART _
> 
> _ I HOPE I GET TO BE WITH YOU _
> 
> _ FOREVER _
> 
> _ LOVE _
> 
> _ MAGNUS BURNSIDES _

Julia hangs the letter next to her desk, and looks at it every day.

On the day of your wedding, you’re proud to be able to sign your name properly on the marriage license. Blocky capital letters and all.

She signs her name too.   _ Julia _ in her own nice neat writing, and then a blocky  _ BURNSIDES _ in all caps, just like yours.  You both laugh.

You don’t write much these days, but you still have the callus.  It’s on the same finger that your wedding band would be on.  Some nights, you stare at it.  This permanent part of you, altered forever by her.

You pray sometimes it never heals.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has a pretty serious injury described in it, and Magnus is pretty close to death. There is also some self-destructive and borderline suicidal thinking, and Julia's death is mentioned briefly.
> 
> this one is too sad next one will be happy (or at least, as happy as a fic about scars can be)

You joke about it now.  

The truth is, you would have died.

Honestly, you _should_ have died.  And at the time, you wish you had.

It’s about seven inches long, and it runs along the lower curve of your belly, just under your navel.  It’s ragged, because an injury like that has no chance of healing neatly.

You remember the moments before very clearly.

You remember it was raining.  

You remember that you were still fresh off Julia’s death, and had a bit of a death wish yourself.

You knew when you signed up with this group that you were, on some level, sure you wouldn’t come back.

And that was okay maybe.

You couldn’t bring yourself to kill yourself.  You had thought about it.  And you’d done some pretty self destructive things to that end.  But you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

Maybe you were a coward.

Maybe you just couldn’t stand to think about what she’d say.

But if you were _killed_ , that wasn’t your fault, right?  If you died in a fight, that wasn’t suicide.

That was okay, right?

So you signed up with the most foolhardy crew possible.

It helped that they had plans to rout out some of Kalen’s forces.  If anything, it was the perfect opportunity for you.  Maybe you’ll take a few of them down.  Maybe you’ll get the one who set the charges on the columns.

You don’t waste time getting to know these people you work with.  They’re just faces in a caravan as far as you’re concerned.

With any luck, you won’t be with them for long.

That’s how you got there, on that muddy field.  Axe in hand, you had charged into the fray.

Here’s something they don’t tell you about getting gutted.

You actually don’t feel the cut.  You definitely feel the sword hit you, it weighs about four pounds.  And you feel it slide across your stomach.  But you don’t feel the cut.

You see the blood immediately though.

It’s on the sword, and then it’s on your hands, and then it’s on the ground because you’re on the ground and everything is spinning and you don’t know what’s happening but you put a hand to your stomach and it’s so _hot_ and the rain is falling on you and you see your blood mixing into the mud and you’re suddenly very aware of the feeling of your heart beating.

Pumping your blood out of the wound in your stomach.

Things start going white.

You remember Steven telling you once that humans can lose a little less than half of their blood before they’ll die.

You think you’ll be there in a minute or two.

Time seems to slow down to an agonizing crawl.  Heartbeats seem to take minutes to complete.  You clutch at your stomach, trying to keep in everything that’s trying to escape.

And it’s here, in this moment, that you realize.

You _don’t_ want to die.  Not like this.

Not yet anyway.

You hadn’t even begun to fight.

As your vision slides out of focus, just as it’s about to go dark, you think you hear something.

Your name.

Someone is calling your name.

You wake up calling back.

“Julia!”

Was it a dream?

Reflexively you grab at your stomach, but the wound is gone.

There’s a scar though.  You can feel it clearly, puckering your skin in a sickening, thick line.

Definitely not a dream.

“Almost didn’ make it,” a voice said, “‘nother few seconds an’ I would ‘ave lost ya.  Lucky I ‘eard yeh cry out.”

You recognize the voice as the caravan’s cleric, a wizened old tiefling with greying eyes and hair.  You hadn’t bothered to learn his name because you didn’t think you were going to need to know it.

You were regretting that decision now.

You want to say thank you but you realize that the words aren’t coming.  Not from a lack of thankfulness, but from an overwhelming bounty of it.  It’s gathering up in your throat, choking you, keeping from you from making a sound.

You wonder if this speechlessness from the rescued is a common thing with adventurers, because he doesn’t try to push you to form any of the words he has to know are forming (terribly, incomplete) in your mouth.

“Ah think ya ‘ad a bit o’ bad luck out there,” he laughs.  “Got yerself a souvenir.”

You nod, looking up.  You’re starting to come back to reality, and you realize you are no longer lying in the muddy field.  You’re in a tent.  The fabric canopy above you is dancing with light.

And you begin to cry.

“Alright son,” the tiefling says, walking over to you and putting a hand on your shoulder.  “Yer okay.  Firs’ one is always the ‘ardest.”

It isn’t your first, you want to say.  You’re so much more damaged than this.  But you’re finding it hard to talk over the bubbling in your chest.  Your face is hot and your tears are hotter.  Try as you might, you can’t bring yourself to speak to him.

You never do learn his name.

You grab your things and disappear in the night.  You’re embarrassed, tucking your tail between your legs and running.  You would be better.  Stronger.  You would not go out quietly.

You had wanted to die.

But _she_ didn’t want you to die like that.

You remember that every time you catch sight of the scar.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place right before Crystal Kingdom. Nothing too graphic, though there's like a split second where I talk about scraped skin that might be gross. There are some jokes about jacking it towards the end.

You hadn’t held your tools like this in almost five years.

You had only recovered a handful of items from the Hammer and Tongs after its destruction.  Partially because you didn’t want to spend another moment there more than you had to, and partially because there wasn’t much left to recover.  A few unbroken items of value that you ended up selling for traveling money.  A few spare changes of clothes, whatever was left that hadn’t burnt up in the fires.  Julia’s mother’s locket, which you can’t believe wasn’t on her when she...  And, probably the biggest surprise to you, your woodworking tools.

You’re shocked that they weren’t looted before you got to them.  You were shocked you took them when you found them.  You were shocked you didn’t sell them as soon as you had the opportunity.

But they had a lot of good memories attached to them.

The only thing that got any use was the axe, which you had sold to Garfield at the Fantasy Costco a long time ago.  You had to laugh, because the rest of the kit you kept wrapped up in your bag, taking up space for no reason.  But the axe, which you  _ did _ use, you had no problem selling.

You suppose that people are just contradictory like that.

But you were using them now, that was what was important.

Or at least, you were  _ going _ to use them.  Right now you were just holding them.

Steven had given you these when you started your apprenticeship.  A hammer, a wood chisel, a plane, two files, a handful of bits and augers, and a pair of calipers.  You had a lot more in the shop, but obviously they were long gone.  These were all you had left.

You were going to make something special.

Candlenights was important to you.

Candlenights meant family and warmth and  _ belonging _ .  And for what felt like the first time in a  _ long _ time, you actually had those things again.  All the folks at the Bureau, made you feel so  _ useful _ .  So welcome.  They were family.  They’ve taken you in and made you feel like you belong.  

And Taako and Merle…  _ wow _ .  You never thought you’d care so much about another living thing again.  But they were… like brothers?  Well Merle was more of a dad.  Taako was more of a… something.  You couldn’t put your finger on it, but you recognized he was special to you.

In the past, you traditionally had carved things as Candlenights gifts.  Figurines and bowls were more in the spirit of the holiday, but the three of you had just been upgraded to new larger dorm rooms and were in desperate need of usable furniture.

Maybe jumping directly into chairs from nothing wasn’t the  _ smartest _ idea.

You hadn’t made a chair since…

Honestly though, chairs were your  _ thing _ .  You were aces at chairs.  It had been years, but you were sure that it would be like riding a horse.

Five minutes in, your chisel slipped.

The wood was hard and your hands weren’t as steady.

It catches you on the side of your thumb.

“FUCK.”

Your thumb is bleeding.  You drop your tools and pop your thumb into your mouth with a moan of pain.

“You okay in there big guy?”

It’s Merle, talking to you from the other side of your new bedroom door.

“Don’t come in!” you shout in a panic, but you’re not entirely sure why.

“... Okay son, just checking on you!”

“I’m okay!”

“Glad we’re getting good use out of these doors!” he laughs, “Was so tired of walking in on you!”

“ _ MERLE.” _

You feel your face going red.

“What’s going on in here?” comes another lilting voice.

“Magnus is jacking it.”

“I AM NOT.”

“And you’re just standing here  _ listening?”  _ Taako asked, “Dude that’s gross!”

“Can you two idiots just go  _ literally _ anywhere else?”  You’re angry, but you start laughing.  Taako is laughing too.

“Come on old man, let the human jack off in peace.”

You take a moment to look at your thumb.  A sliver of skin is hanging off your thumb.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” you whisper, laughing to yourself.

These  _ idiots _ .  You really were right at home with them.

They aren’t the best chairs you’ve ever made, but they’re still pretty amazing.  Your thumb is still bandaged up on Candlenights when you give them to your friends.

Before the night goes places you weren’t expecting (laboratories, crystal golems, giant monsters, unexpected surgery), you take a moment to reflect on this family that  _ you _ weren’t expecting.

You were so blessed.  You were so truly at  _ home _ .

The crescent scar you get puts a smile on your face when you see it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's blood and descriptions of an animal in distress in this one. Magnus' life is a series of events involving blood and animals in distress.
> 
> I'm trying to work in some thoughts about where Magnus comes from given recent developments but it's hard. Maybe after this week it will get easier.

The scar on your lip was from the same day you lost your tooth.

All things considered, losing an incisor wasn’t that bad.  Honestly, it suited your face.  Looking in a mirror after it happened, you think it actually looks  _ better _ than when you had all your teeth.

You wonder what that means if your face looks better when it’s incomplete.

You had been in the forest, chopping wood for the shop.  Today it was just firewood, but you had your eyes peeled for interesting fallen wood on the forest floor that you could carve.  Sometimes you found snaky branches that were just perfect for walking sticks and staves.

You had been at it for a few hours.  The trees were sheltering you from the sun, but you were still drenched with sweat.

You had spent the day lost in your thoughts.

Chopping wood gave you a lot of time to reflect.  Not about anything in particular, but it was good to be alone.  You had a lot going on now that the Mad Governor had been toppled.  

Julia had proposed to you a few weeks ago.  

She cast your ring herself in her father’s hearth.  It was crude and simple, but you adored it.  A perfectly forged steel ring.  She said that the fire that formed it burned as bright as her love for you.  Steven had promised to finish it before you were married, adding a design.  But you think you would be happy if it stayed plain forever.

You had scrambled to carve her a ring in return.  Simple, just like hers.  Walnut, unfinished.  You got the wood from a fallen branch off the tree her mother was buried under.  The plan was to carve in more details to match the design Steven made for yours.

Your love was simple, you said, but it was sturdy.  Rough around the edges, but warm and natural within.

You tossed another log into your cart.  It was almost full, and you knew you would have to head back soon, but you lingered another moment in the shadow of the trees.

Were you ready for this?

You had a wild heart, Steven had said when you came to live with them.  A heart that yearned to travel elsewhere.  When you first came here, he didn’t trust that you would stick around.  But now, at home in the shop, holding Julia’s hand and sitting in front of the fire, you didn’t believe it.  You couldn't imagine yourself anywhere else.  But here in the forest, you could feel it.  A desire to explore.

You don’t know where it came from.  You were happy here, with Julia and Steven.  Hell, you were the happiest you had ever been.  You were happy being at work, and happy being useful to people you loved.  Happy  _ being _ loved.

But here in the forest, you felt the stirring of your heart.

Were you  _ really _ supposed to be here?

_ CRACK _

A frantic rustling in the undergrowth has you frozen in your tracks.  Something had just snapped.  You look around for the source of the sound, thinking it may be another fallen branch.

But then, another sound.

A strange, low bark.  Not like a dog, but a bark all the same.

You follow the sound of the cry like an idiot.  Steven often told you that it wasn’t safe to go chasing after things in the woods without backup.  There could be any number of dangerous creatures, not to mention sudden drop offs and sinkholes masked by fallen leaves.  But you feel compelled to follow the sound.

As you enter a nearby clearing, you see the source.

A snare trap had captured a young deer.  It had been pulled onto it’s back, one hind leg yanked into the air.  Upon seeing you, it thrashed violently as it lets out another low bark.

You didn’t even know that deer made sounds.

You approach cautiously.

It’s small, probably about a year old.  The beginnings of horns were starting to grow.  The snare trap is wrapped around it’s leg, but you note that it is only rope and nothing worse.  In fact, as you get closer, you realize the trap looks rather old.  It probably was set months ago, in the springtime from the frayed look of the rope.  The trapper that set it probably forgot it was here.

Caught in a trap that no hunter was coming back for.

What a shitty way to die.

You grab your knife out of your belt

“Hey there bud,” you whisper, trying to soothe it into relaxing.  It’s limbs are flailing, keeping you at arm’s length.  “I want to cut you loose, okay?”

You make eye contact with the deer.

It’s eyes are dark pools and you’re lost in them for a moment.  Dark pools of wild.  You try not to blink, edging closer.  The deer and you share a moment of silence as it stops it’s thrashing.

Steven says you are wild at heart.  That a part of you wants to roam.  You empathize with this deer.  You feel a connection.  You are  _ both _ wild at heart.  You lean in close to your kindred spirit.

Suddenly, the deer kicks you in the teeth.

The pain as you wrench away shocks you back to reality.

“Fuck!”

You put a hand to your mouth and feel one of your teeth has been knocked loose.  It’s cradled in your cheek, far from where it’s supposed to be.  Your lip is split open and blood is pouring into your mouth.  It’s warm and tastes of metal and for a moment it makes you think of Julia.

Spitting the blood and your tooth onto the forest floor, you find yourself drawn back to the deer.

Without hesitating, you weave past the legs and hooves to cut the deer free.  It scrambles to it’s feet and looks you in the eye for a moment before dashing off into the forest.

“You’re welcome!” you cry, spitting out another mouthful of blood.

You put your knife back in your belt and grab your bandanna from your back pocket.

You make it back to the shop with a cartful of wood and a mouthful of hankerchief.

Your lip needs stitches, and Julia does it for you.  But your tooth is gone, and you won’t get it back.

“What  _ happened _ ?” she asked.

“Deer kicked me in the face,” you mutter through the compress she has pressed to your mouth.

“What were you doing that close to a deer?” she laughed.  You’re glad she’s laughing.  You’d smile, but it hurts too much.

But you’re stuck in that moment, looking at the deer.

Were you too wild?

“Aren’t you worried about me leaving?”

She gives you a funny look.  “Is this about daddy?”  You don’t know how to respond.  She puts a hand to your cheek.  “He’s okay with it, Magnus.  He helped me with your ring!  You’re part of the family. We know you’re not going to leave.”

“I-”

“When you first got here dad told me not to get attached to you,” she continued.  “You were a stray dog that would wander out of our lives as fast as you came into it.  But he was  _ wrong _ .  You belong here.  With me.”

You do smile, and immediately wince in pain.  Julia kisses you on the forehead.

You never want to feel that need to wander again.  You want to be home.  Forever.

Your smile is forever altered.

You like it better that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually have an ending planned but I want to get a few more stories in before I close this one. Send me ideas for scars Magnus might have on tumblr (nekosd43). At the very least I still need to do the one on his eye, and I have one planned for ones on his knuckles.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains: vague but gross descriptions of an infected wound. Night terrors about Julia's death and funeral. Magnus swears a swear I guess. 
> 
> This one would take place a few months after he got the one on his stomach I talk about in chapter... 5 I think? I'm having to keep track of which scars he would have gotten when. This is what I get for writing vignettes.

The moons are high in the sky, and you are simultaneously sweating buckets and freezing to death.

Wrapped up in your bedroll, you spasm through another shiver wracking your body.  Your skin feels like it’s on fire, but internally you feel like you’re swimming in a frozen lake.  Damp and numb.  Freezing and burning.

At the time you couldn’t figure it out.

But when you would reflect on this night later, you would realize that you obviously had a fever.

Which was natural, considering the infection.

You had been out on the road for five days.  It was your first time traveling completely alone.  You had done the caravan thing for a while, but you had wanted some solitude.  You were personable by nature, craving the attention of others, but you had been isolating yourself more and more since your defeat on the hill.

Since you were saved by a tiefling Cleric whose name you hadn’t even bothered to learn.

Since that day you were convinced that the lone wolf, hero-for-hire route was best for you.  Being available and disposable for anyone who was in trouble was an ideal job, now that your life was so empty.  And if you kept it empty, you would have no reservations when the time came.

You had cleared yourself of your death wish.  You weren’t  _ trying _ to get killed anymore.  But that didn’t mean you didn’t want it.  There would always be a small part of you that wanted it.  You just figured you might as well do as much good as you could before then.

Lots of innocent people needed a protector.

Of course, two days into your journey across Faerun, you had gotten into trouble.

The problem with being a lone wolf is that no one is there to protect  _ you _ .

Shivering, you put your hand to your aching shoulder.  It was red and tender, swollen, even though it’s been days since the bite.

It was a rat, probably as big as your arm.  There had been five of them, but only one had gotten a taste of you.  You weren’t big on hurting animals, but in the interest of self defence you had dispatched them relatively quickly.  They smelled terrible, and you knew better than to take their carcasses for meat.

The bite was deep and blood poured down your arm from two parallel wounds.  You were no Cleric, and didn’t know the best way to deal with a puncture wound like that.  So you slapped a bandage on, and drank one of the potions for small wounds that you had in your bag.

The first problem was that it would not stop weeping.

The blood flow stopped after about a day, but you kept having to change the bandage because of a terrible watery substance still leaking from the wound.  It smelled like the rats did.

It smelled like death.

The second problem was that the wound was starting to change colors.

You weren’t an expert, but  _ green _ was not a color you should be seeing on your body.  

Your bicep swelled up, and was hot to the touch.  On day four you felt lethargic and dizzy, and had made camp in an attempt to sleep it off.

And now you hadn’t moved since then.

Looking back on that night, you’re pretty sure it was the sickest you had been in a long time.

When you were younger, other people took care of you.  You didn’t know much first aid, and you had very little practical know-how for how to patch yourself up.  Julia had always taken care of any injuries you got in the shop, and you’d had a Cleric nearby in your brief life as an adventurer.

Now you were alone, trying to sweat out an infection that at the time you didn’t even know you had.

You probably weren’t going to die.

But it still wasn’t pleasant.

You have fever dreams, but they’re so similar to your regular night terrors that you don’t notice much difference.  Faceless bodies, broken and crushed under the weight of stones meant to shelter them.  Funerals held on mass to save time.  Julia, buried before you could make it back.  They couldn’t bury her with her mother - the gravesite was covered with debris.  They didn’t even bother to mark hers, you had to guess among the mounds of dirt which one was her.  There was far more desperate things to worry about.  And you felt completely numb, even though you knew you should feel  _ something _ .  Anger.  Fear.  Sadness.  Literally anything.

You woke with a start, two moons overhead, simultaneously sweating buckets and freezing to death.

“This fucking sucks,” you chatter, trying to clench your teeth tightly.

Sometimes you talked to yourself.  You’ve noticed that since you’ve been alone more.  You’re not totally sure why.  Maybe because you were so used to  _ someone _ being there.  You hoped someone was listening at least.

You always hoped she was listening.

“I refuse to die like this,” you huff.  “This is the stupidest way I could possibly die.  I’m not meeting you in the Astral plane like  _ this. _ ”

Of course, you didn’t die.  But you’re not really sure how, given how stupid you had been.

The fever broke just before sunrise.

You’re soaking wet from all the sweat, and you crawl out of your bedroll and tear off your undershirt and pants.  They were basically ruined, at least until you could get them washed.  You wandered out of the clearing you were sleeping in in just your underwear, towards the sound of a running stream.

The water was freezing, but it felt warmer than you had been.

It’s not deep, but it’s deep enough for you to sit down and splash your body.  You’re not a super clean guy, but you know you have to smell awful after sweating in a sleeping bag for two days.  You use a stone off the creek bottom to scrub your skin.

You remove the dressing from your wound, and it still smells horrible.  You don’t want to look at it.  You carefully bring a cupped hand of water to the site, and carefully clean your wound.

It hurts so much, but you had been through worse.

The water gets murky from blood and other fluids, but you clean it out thoroughly.

You’re not sure if it’s the pain or the cold water, but your head finally feels clear.

You make it to town the next day, and finally get it treated by a competent healer.  They give you some poultice to put on it, some kind of mashed up root mixed with springwater.  You’re not smart enough to know what exactly it is.  Two days of that smeared on bandages, and the swelling finally stops.  The discharge stops.  The pain stops.

You carry a small bottle of alcohol now.  For disinfecting wounds.

It’s the kind of stupid mistake you only have to make once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on vacation so expect a few updates on this one. Also these are about to get SAD AS HECK.
> 
> COME YELL AT ME ON TUMBLR IF YOU'VE GOT SCAR HCS I WANT THEM.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains: Merle Highchurch talking about banging lady dwarves. And swearing. The boys also get real drunk. There might be some triggering details relating to alcoholism, depending on how you read Magnus' thoughts on the subject.
> 
> I wanted to do a chapter with Merle and Magnus since I did one with Taako and Magnus early on. This will probably be the last funny one, all the ones left that I have planned are sad.

There’s one scar you don’t remember so well.

The only reason you know what caused it is because Merle was able to tell you.  The dwarf would recount the story to anyone who asked.  And sometimes even if people didn’t.  You consider it punishment.

You knew better than to get that shitfaced.

It’s a scrape underneath your pecs.  It used to be a lot bigger, a lot redder, but it thankfully had healed a bit.

The sequence of events, as you understood it, was as follows:

1: You and Merle were camping.  

Sometimes he invited you planetside so the two of you could get some bonding in.  Taako was invited too, but he always declined ( _ “I hate camping when I get paid for it.  Why would I do it for fun?” _ )  But you like camping, and you like Merle.

Merle is a dad to his bones.  You always considered Steven Waxman to be your real dad, or at least the realest dad you’d ever known, but Merle does his best to fill that role on the team.  He listens when you talk, and gives you bad advice.  If anything he’s more like an uncle, but you’d call him “dad” when you teased him.

2: You were both very drunk.  

Merle had brought some awful tasting moonshine that he had been brewing in his dorm, and it knocked you down like a kick from a donkey.  You both could only take small sips before you were gasping and coughing.  It was a little bit like drinking dragonfire.

The bad thing about the two of you together is that neither of you were good about saying no.  Merle was full of pride, and hated to be outdone, even if the contest was against someone three times his size.  And you were simply too much of a people pleaser to know when to say stop.

You remembered being young and drinking with friends, sharing beers in crowded bars.

You used to drink a lot.

You tried not to drink that much anymore.  The months after Julia’s death were rarely spent sober, and you regretted that.  But you had a hard time saying no when people pushed drinks into your hands.  And Merle just kept on  _ pushing _ them, then immediately getting huffy about you drinking more than him.

3: It was late, and you both were talking shit.

“Fuck you Burnsides,” Merle laughed, pouring another shot.  “I’ll have you know that I am  _ very  _ handsome for a dwarf.”

“What does that, like… even mean,” you mutter, staring up at the stars.  “You’re like, ‘By the standards of the ugliest race I’m handsome’.”

“Dwarves are not  _ ugly _ , we’re hairy,” Merle huffed, passing you the shot and pouring another. “You of all people should know the difference.”

As you grab the drink, you start to giggle, and spill a little on yourself.

“Short and hairy,” you gasp, eyes starting to water from laughing.  “Sounds like a great combination to me.”

“I get more Dwarf women in a week than you probably would in a lifetime,” Merle growled.

Your face goes red and you put your hands against your cheeks.  “Come on man!  You can have them!”

“Your loss,” Merle shrugged and then downed another shot.  “A lady-dwarf’s beard rubbing against yours is one of the most  _ erotic _ experiences one can have.”

“Ew ew ew!” You’re laughing really hard now, and your stomach is starting to hurt.  “No stop!  I don’t want to picture this!”

“You started this Burnsides!  Nothing gross about two loving dwarves, naked and hairy!”

“No please!  I’ll do anything!”

Merle laughs, then looks you dead in the eyes.  “Beat me in a contest.”

You put a hand to your head, which is pounding.  “Wait wait… wait.  You want me to beat you in a contest… so you’ll stop talking about dwarf sex.”

“Fight me, Burnsides!” Merle cried, throwing both of his arms in the air.

You put a hand up in front of his face.

“I could, like, literally crush your head in my hand.”  Your words are slurring together.  “It’s not gonna be a fair contest.”

“So let  _ me _ pick the contest,” Merle insists, pushing your hand out of the way.

4: The contest was tree climbing.

Why the two of you agreed to this in particular still escapes you.  Merle says it made sense at the time, but you can’t imagine a situation where it would.

You’re both getting sweaty from all the drinking, so you’ve torn off your shirts and are picking out a tree to climb.

“Last one up has to clean up camp in the morning!” Merle cried.

This is dumb.  You know this is dumb.  Some deep corner of your brain is screaming “This is the dumbest shit ever it’s two in the morning and you’re climbing a tree, drunk and shirtless!” but you don’t listen to it because the moonshine is saying some other things that make a lot more sense right now.

“I will fucking destroy you and those little legs of yours!” you cry.

The race starts, and you can’t believe how high Merle already is.

You would realize in the morning that Merle absolutely had the advantage in this contest.  All he had to do was  _ ask _ the tree to help him up.  You, on the other hand, would have to climb the old fashioned way.

You had climbed plenty of trees in your days, but not drunk, and not in the dark.

5: When you are about halfway up, a limb snaps.

You fall stomach first hard on a thick branch.  You tried to wrap yourself around it, but gravity and your lack of coordination got the better of you.  You slid, your stomach and chest being roughed up by the bark on your way down.

When you hit the ground, you can see Merle is at the top of his tree.

You decide to just lay there for a bit.

“You okay Mags?” he shouts.

You look at your chest, which is red like it’s been sunburned.  It wasn’t bleeding, but it stung like hell.

“I think so,” you call back.  “Tree fucked me up.”

“Damn right it did!” Merle cried.

When Merle is back on the ground, he takes a look at your scrapes.  He says they aren’t worth wasting a spell slot over, and you’re inclined to agree.  A little friction burn that would heal with time.

Except it doesn’t.

It’s been months, and you’ve still got a band of bark burn on your chest.  Merle loves telling the story and embellishing it to the point of absurdity.

It was dumb.

You were dumb.

You still go camping occasionally, but you try not to drink with Merle anymore.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear people browsing the TAZ tag looking for literally anything besides me today: I'm sorry I updated the same fic 3 times in 12 hours and kept pushing this to the top of the most recent feed. I have to take the writing as it comes.
> 
> Contains: Governor Kalen. A vague description of electrocution.
> 
> The next couple chapters are all going to be about Raven's Roost and Kalen's defeat, and the scars earned in that time. I think I have everything I want to write mapped out now, but we'll see if that changes. This chapter is very plot heavy, but I didn't want to focus too much on the scar itself for this one.

It was a day you would remember with extreme clarity for the rest of your life.

It was the day you knew for certain that Kalen could be stopped.

You had received a summons up to the mansion.  You personally hadn’t had any dealings with the Governor directly, but you had been hearing rumors passed around the Quarter.  Rumors that those who caused him trouble tended to disappear.  And that was on top of the ridiculous taxes he levied on your wares.

You didn’t have a head for numbers, but Julia explained to you that he expected the small shop owners in Raven’s Roost to surrender half of their profits to him.  And the import tax on things coming into the city meant prices of non-local items were often double what they were actually worth.

That of course was a kiss of death for a lot of the shops.  You had seen many businesses go under over the past year.  Lots of good people had lost their homes.

The only thing keeping the Hammer and Tongs afloat was under-the-table sales you were doing outside town that weren’t being taxed.  You and a couple other craftsmen had set up a small trade ring to get goods in and out of Raven’s Roost.

The day you got the summons, your stomach dropped out from underneath you.

“He can’t possibly know,” Julia soothed, smoothing your hair with her fingers.  “It has to be something else.”

She wasn’t really talking to you.  She was trying to reassure  _ herself _ .

You weren’t afraid to stand up to bullies.

But you were afraid for her.

The mansion was a day’s ride from the Quarter, but you could see it in the distance long before you got close.  It was massive, far larger than any office of an elected official of a small town should be.  You felt your face get hot with anger.  You couldn’t believe just a few years ago, you had trusted this man.  You had  _ voted _ for him.  Just about everyone had.  That’s what made this so much worse.

That trust had been misplaced.

When you reached the gate of the estate, you were met with a few other travellers.  Some you recognized, some you didn’t.  They seemed to all be merchants from the different columns of Raven’s Roost.  You tried to be friendly, extending your hand to them, but none of them looked very happy to be there.

You did feel a sigh of relief when you realized that only one other member of your smuggling ring was present.  Perhaps it wasn’t about that after all.

The gates were opened, and you were lead into the property by a servant of the Governor.

After tethering your mule in the stable outside, you entered the mansion.

The opulence of the building was magnified indoors.  Kalen had  _ carpets _ , something you had never seen in Raven’s Roost.  Throw rugs on wood floors were as fancy as things got around here.  You were lead through a grand entryway into a dining hall, and you and the other vendors were asked to sit around a long table.

Kalen entered from a door on the other side of the room, flanked by two armed guards and a man in a long dark cloak.

You hadn’t seen Governor Kalen up close since his election.  Back then, he was a much different person.  Championing for the people, he had been essential to getting the economy of Raven’s Roost off the ground.  His election had seemed like a natural conclusion.  But as soon as he was in power, he began to go back on his promises.

You hated him.

“I’m sure you are all wondering why I’ve called you here,” Kallen said, sitting at the head of the table in a high-backed chair.  His entourage of guards stood behind him menacingly, but the man in the black cloak sat at his right hand.

Nobody responded.  Kalen smiled.

“Gentlemen.  Ladies.  I’ll cut to the chase,” Kalen sighed, extending a hand to his cloaked assistant, who handed him a ledger.  “I have reason to believe that there is a resistance building in Raven’s Roost.”

“Resistance to what?” said a woman across from you.

“To me,” Kalen replied, flipping through the pages of the ledger.  “I already know that everyone here knows something about it.”

You look around, unable to find the connection between the group of people there.  You could see in the eyes of the others present that they were trying to do the same.   _ What was the connection _ ?

“I’m a merciful leader, though,” he continued.  “I’m willing to grant clemency to anyone who tells me what they know.”

“Clemency from what?” you find yourself asking.

“Why, from punishment,” he says with a shrug.  “If I don’t start cracking down, there’s going to be a  _ rebellion _ .”

You meet eyes with your fellow smuggler, and he gave you a look that you could read as clear as day.

_ If we don’t say something, someone will. _

He raises his hand to speak, but you slam your fists down on the table.

“No, fuck this!” you cried.  “I’m not turning in anyone!  You want to know where the Resistance is?  It’s  _ here _ .”

You gesture at yourself, and Kalen rolls his eyes.

“Honestly.  Burnsides, right?  I already know all about you and your pathetic little tax evasion scam.”

You feel the color drain out of your face.  Kalen flips another page in his ledger with an apathetic sigh.

“Everyone in here is guilty of some small slight against me,” he continued, “But I also think you people could be useful on  _ my  _ side.  You’re leaders in your communities, and I’m willing to look past your missteps.  You tell me the names of people disloyal to me, and I will assure that your businesses never go under, that your families never go hungry, and that you get to live long and happy lives with the people you care about.”

You stand up from your seat.

“Fuck you.”

Kalen rolls his eyes again, and gestures towards you.

A flash of blue lightning erupts from the fingertips of his assistant.

And you are on the floor in pain.

It’s only a second, but the jolt of electricity dances over your body with such intensity that it feels like a thousand years.  Your body spasms, your brain no longer in control of your limbs.

You can’t hear anything except the beating of your heart as you lay face down in the carpet.  This carpet that was paid for by the fear of people you loved.  That was what kept him in power.   _ Fear _ .

When you stop shaking, rough hands grab you and stand you up.

Kalen is speaking to you, but your ears are ringing so loud you can’t hear him.  You look around the table and see the horrified faces of the other merchants.  They are afraid.  You don’t know what is happening, but you shout as loud as you can to hear yourself over the din in your ears.

“ _ I’m not afraid of you Kalen! _ ”

Another jolt of electricity, but this time, some of the merchants jumped from their seats.  Kalen gestured sharply, and the pain stopped.  You are starting to black out.  The throbbing in your ears was louder than ever.

Someone is shouting.  The merchants are grabbing you, pulling you roughly from the guards.  Kalen looks bored with you already, and your eyes roll back into your head.

You wake up in the Hammer and Tongs.

Julia is holding your hand.

“Maggie,” she gasps, quickly wiping tears from her eyes. “You’re awake.”

“What… what happened?” you whisper.

“Kalen’s warlock,” comes a gruff voice that you don’t recognize.  “Witch Bolt can do some serious damage to a man.  You’re lucky.”

You turned your head and see one of the merchants from the meeting, sitting in the room: an older elf with greying hair.  You didn’t know him before today, but you learn that he is a musician from the Artesian Square.  His name is Elion, and you would grow to be friends.

“Why... didn’t he kill me?” you asked.

“There were too many of us,” he replied, “He didn’t expect all of us to stand up for you.  The man is a coward at heart.  One person stands up, he’s got no problem cutting them down.  But a group… he doesn’t know how to deal with that.”

You try to sit up and feel cold compresses wrapped against your side.  Carefully, you pull one back to look at what they conceal.

“Lightning leaves a scar that... looks like lightning,” Julia said, trying to ease you into it.

To you, it doesn’t look like lightning.  It looks like a dark tree, burned into your skin.  Branches extending up your side and across your back and chest.

You would never forget this day.

What Kalen didn’t know is that you would use that scar to rally others towards you.

_ “I stood up and I survived, but only because others stood with me!” _

It was the battle cry of the rebellion written on your skin.

He doesn’t know it yet, but he has given you the tools to take him down.

You don’t know it yet, but he has set in motion events that can never be taken back.

Branching out before you all like limbs on a tree.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as I'm concerned, this vignette is a prequel to GayFrankensteinsMonster's "matched set" which is honestly the quintessential scar story in this fandom as far as I'm concerned and I couldn't write anything better so I might as well treat it AS CANON. You could easily read that next and it would make sense (except a couple small differences, like the wedding bands I've described previously in my story).
> 
> THANKS FOR LETTING ME USE YOUR STORY AS INSPIRATION IT'S REALLY GOOD. If you want to read a story about Julia picking glass out of Magnus' face BOY DO I HAVE GOOD NEWS FOR YOU.  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/9727610  
> (seriously though it's good)
> 
> As for THIS story, it contains: drinking, some swearing and a disparaging remark about a woman, blood. A really super vague description of glass-in-face.
> 
> This is the story of Magnus' one canon scar.

“He’s over there, in the corner.”

You look up from your drink and glance over out of the corner of your eyes.

“Are you sure?” you mutter, lifting the bottle to your lips.

“Almost certain,” Elion replied, casually sitting next to you.  “Ari says she saw him coming out of the mansion with the letter.”

You nod, but in the slightest way so as not to raise anyone’s attention.  You know that Elion’s keen eyes will see it.

“Is he drinking?”

“He looks like he’s finishing,” Elion mutters, “Do you have a plan?”

It’s been a few months since Kalen had called you to the mansion.

You knew Kalen was watching you.  He was watching all of you.  You weren’t naive enough to think that he would ignore you after the stunt you pulled.

It made being a leader of the Rebellion complicated.

Rebellion.  With a capital R now.  Kalen had made the problem so much bigger than it was.  You were not about to roll over and let him destroy this town.

You were the face of the rebels.  People adored you, listened to you.  You weren’t much of a strategist, you left that to Elion.  And you weren’t much of an organizer, you left that to Julia.  Between the three of you, you had gained a sizable following, and a network of people throughout Raven’s Roost that were willing to stand up when the time came.

You were waiting to find out when that would be.

If your sources were right, Kalen had a courier that he was sending orders through.  And if  _ that _ was true, you had it on pretty good faith that the message he sent out today had details for an attack he was planning.

It was risky, but if you could get those plans off the courier, your men would have the advantage.

Without it, you all could be crushed without warning.

“We can’t let him leave,” you say, turning to the bartender and pulling your coinpurse out from your belt.  “Barkeep!  I’m proposing to my girl tomorrow!  Drinks for everyone are on me!”

The bar erupted in cheers, both for you and for drinks, and people are rushing to you and clapping you on the back.

“Congratulations Burnsides!”

“About time you made an honest woman out of Julia!”

“Drinks for the happy couple!”

It has the effect that you’re hoping for.  The rush of people to the bar resulted in a blockage, making it difficult for anyone to get out.  Drinks are being passed around, and you make sure someone passes one back to the corner.

“Make sure that guy’s drink is always full,” you whisper to Elion.  His long ears twitch to signal that he heard you over the cheers.  “Don’t let anyone leave.”  He nods, and disappears into the crowd of well wishers.

There was a side to this plan that you had not considered.

People kept making you drink.

There were lots toasts from well wishers and people buying you beers as thanks.  People who knew you and wanted to celebrate, people who didn’t but couldn’t stand the idea of simply accepting a free drink without returning the kindness.  Every time you finished one, another bottle was being pressed into your hand with a laugh.  You had to drink, otherwise it would be suspicious.

You were pretty good at holding your liquor.

But nobody is good after as many drinks as you had.

Whether it was the drinks or the crowd or Elion keeping an eye on him, the courier hadn’t left.

And you were getting very seriously fucked up.

It’s late, and the counter is covered in empty bottles.  Elion has his lute out and is singing something in Elvish.  Folks are still congratulating you, but it’s getting sloppy and a little bit sappy.  You’re getting fuzzy.

You’re a blur.

Your head is full of cotton, but you try to shake it off.  You had a mission to complete.

You just had to keep the courier here long enough for Ari to grab the letter.

Ari was in the bar somewhere.  She was good at disguising herself, so you probably wouldn’t recognize her right away.  All you knew was that she hadn’t done it  _ yet _ , because you would have gotten the signal.  You wondered what was taking her so long.

Just as you begin to wonder, the courier stands up.  You quickly grab your half finished beer, and make your way towards him.

“Heeeeeey!” you cried, unsure of what exactly you’re going to do to stop him from leaving.

“Uh, hey,” he replies, picking up his bag.  “Thanks for… the drinks.  Congratulations, I guess.”

He’s drunk too.  You can tell from the flushing of his face.  He’s prime for pickpocketing, but Ari still hadn’t made her move.

“You’re welcome!” you laugh, clapping the man on the back.  “Hey!  Hey....  hey.  One more for the road?”

He shook his head.  “I’ve gotta get back to work,” he mumbles, stumbling to the door.

You glanced at Elion, who gave you the slightest shake of his head.   _ Not yet _ .

Fuck.

You grab the courier roughly by the shoulder.

“Wait don’t leave yet!” you shout, “The party's just getting started!”

He pushes your hand away, and makes eye contact with you for the first time.  A look of recognition passes over his face, and you feel paralyzed.

“No… wait!  It’s… Burnsides, right?”

You try not to flinch.

“Yeah… yeah I know  _ you _ ,” the courier continued, “Magnus Burnsides!”

“That’s my name,” you reply, watching the look in the man’s eyes.

“Surprised you had enough cash to pay for all this,” he spits out.

His face is turning a darker shade of red, and you feel your own face getting hot.

“Fucking  _ bastard _ like you.”

“Hey,” you point at him with a shaky hand.  “This is how you say  _ thanks _ ?”

A crowd is gathering around the two of you, and you’re hoping that Ari gets the job done before this guy starts making a scene.

“Yeah.   _ Thanks _ for the crappy beer,” the courier smiles, grabbing the bottle out of your hand and holding it over his head.  “A toast!”

“Come on man,” you muttered.

“No no no,” he insists, “I gotta give credit where it’s due.  A toast to Magnus Burnsides!”

A hush has fallen over the bar as he looks around, bottle aloft.

“The mangy mutt of Raven’s Roost!”

You’re burning up but you try to keep your voice level.

“Dude-”

“And your lovely lady too!” he laughs, lowering the bottle to his lips.  “Can’t remember...  What’s the  _ bitch’s _ name?” 

He’s on the floor and bleeding before you even realize you had moved.

Fuck the plan.

Your knuckles sting and your hand is in his shirt and lifting him up.  The crowd is shouting, yelling.  You look him dead in the eyes, one of which is swelling shut now.

“Apologize.”

He doesn’t.

Next thing you knew, something cold and hard is colliding with your head, and you hear the sound of breaking glass.

It feels like a regular punch at first.

Then it’s like a thousand needles in your face.

You drop him as your hands fly to your face and you can feel hot blood and sharp points buried into your skin.  The crowd descends upon you both, grabbing you and holding you steady.

Someone is screaming.

You are laughing.

You can see out of the eye that didn’t get hit that he’s scurrying for the door, and no one is stopping him.

“HEY!”

Elion is grabbing you as you try to chase after him.  He’s not strong enough, but the crowd of people running to you is enough to slow you down.

“Magnus stop!”

“He… he’s!” you’re feeling light headed and  _ fuzzy _ .

“It’s  _ okay _ Magnus, Ari got it!”

Blood is getting in your eyes, but you see the halfling rogue now, standing by the door.  She’s got an envelope and she’s rushing over to stuff it into your jacket pocket.

“Not your smartest move today, Burnsides,” she quietly whispers.

“ _ Fuck yes _ ,” you laugh, feeling giddy.

She did it.

You did it.

This could be the end of everything.

“We’ve got to get him to a Cleric,” Elion cried.

“No, too far,” Ari hisses. “Let’s take him back to the shop.”

Elion grabs you, slinging your arm over his shoulder.  Ari does her best to brace against your leg and keep you stable.

The blood is dripping down your face, but you don’t feel it.

You don’t feel any pain at all now.

You feel warm.

You feel excited.

This could be it.

Ari kicks the front door of the Tongs open, and you see through the haze... Julia.  Standing like an angel at the top of the banister.

_ Gods _ is she the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen.

“Jules!” you crowed, one foot tripping over the other as you stumble inside. “I'm real fucked up, oh man.”

Elion lays you on the table, and Julia appears above you.  All seriousness and fire and passion, ready to do what had to be done.

You love her so much.

“Julia- Jules, babe-”

“Shut up, stop talking. You've got glass in your face.”

In the morning, the glass was out and your face was stitched up.

She apologized for not being neater, it was her first time doing something like that.

It would not be the last.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magnus gets an arrow in the chest on this one, and there is mention of characters dying, though nothing is described. There's also some discussion about guilt and death.
> 
> I'm bad at writing fight scenes which makes you wonder why I thought it was a good idea to write a fic about battle scars.

You always knew that you could die.

“I’m not going to lie to you all.  If anything goes wrong, we might not make it out.”

You and some of the freedom fighters have gathered in a barn in the Agricultural Sector.  It’s the only building big enough to hold you.  You laughed when you thought about it.  If they weren’t here, they were meeting with Elion or Ari somewhere else.

Much of Raven’s Roost was empty tonight.

“We’re not afraid!” someone cried drunkenly from the hay loft, and you laughed and raised a hand.

“I don’t want you guys to misunderstand me,” you continued with a smile.  “We are absolutely going to win this.”

A loud cheer erupted that you’re certain can be heard all the way to the governor’s mansion.  You hope it leaves him quaking in bed.

You raise your hands again, and a hush falls over the crowd.  You have that kind of power over these people.  They’re hanging on your every word.  “But I want to be clear.  I don’t want to have to look a single one of your widowed husbands or wives in the eye and tell them what happened to you.  I’ll  _ do _ it, that’s my promise as your leader.  But I don’t  _ want _ to.  I want every single one of you to come home to your loved ones and tell them  _ yourselves _ about how we  _ destroyed _ Kalen.”

Another mad cheer rises up.  It’s frantic and excited.  These people trust you.  These people believe in you.  They want to believe that you can protect them all.  But you know you can’t. They know you can’t.  And a part of their deafening cheer is afraid.  

You are also afraid.

In the early morning hours you and your forces are waiting on the ridge outside of Raven’s Roost, preparing to ambush the attack meant to take  _ you _ by surprise.  You’re comforting nervous farmers and craftsmen, letting them know that things are going to be okay, but also that it’s  _ okay _ to be afraid.

You felt like you couldn’t stress that enough as you walked from person to person, putting a hand on their shoulder.

It’s okay to be afraid.

You had all always known that you could die.

Julia is with you, handing out torches and arrows to anyone who needed them.  She refused to leave your side, and a part of you is grateful for that.  You’re afraid, you’re both so afraid.  But at least you are together.

Her hand brushes against yours.  It’s barely a touch, but you’re both trembling.

Just as expected, Kalen’s forces arrived as the sun begins to rise.

Julia and her crew set off small charges at the edge of the ridge, sending rocks tumbling down onto the soldiers below.  It catches them by surprise.

But things do not go as planned.

As you descend the side of the hill with your forces, a volley of crossbow bolts launch at you.  They may not have expected you, but they were prepared for you.  You felt one bolt graze your shoulder.

You couldn’t get enough armor for everyone.

You had done your best, but there were too many people to protect and not enough resources to do so.  So the decision had been made that those with children had the first priority.  Then those who were married.  If things went wrong, you wanted the people of Raven’s Roost to survive past this generation.

You and Julia weren’t even engaged yet (who had time when there was a rebellion to run), so there was no question that you’d be giving your armor to someone else.  People had objected, but you insisted.  It wouldn’t be right to make yourself more important than anyone else.  And you claimed you wouldn’t need it.  All you needed was a wooden shield.

When the bolt grazes your shoulder, it stings, but you keep pressing forward.  Axe drawn and voice raised to a shout, you collide with Kalen’s forces like a wave of water.

Ari is with you in the thick of it.  She’s little, but she isn’t afraid to get scrappy.  She darts around, knives in hand, cutting down soldiers at the knees.  You aren’t as graceful.  You crash into men like a battering ram, swinging your axe as though it weighed less than nothing.  All around you are the screams of battle from your  _ family _ , and you know people are getting hurt but there’s no time to mourn them.

There would be time later.

Suddenly, an impact catches you so hard in the chest, you’re knocked back.  Stumbling and bleary eyed, you look down to see an arrow sticking out.  It’s buried deep in your right shoulder, just above the collarbone.  A flower of red is blooming through your shirt.

You always knew that you  _ could _ die.

But you absolutely refused to let it be today.

With the arrow still lodged in you, you charged forward again, allowing yourself to wash over the opposing forces like a hurricane.

The fight is over quickly.  You rally the troops and storm Kalen’s mansion.

The arrowhead is still inside you when you’re standing over him, and he’s begging for his life.

In the end, only twenty five of your people died.

But you know that means you’ll have to tell twenty five families of Raven’s Roost what had happened.  Every single one of those folks were  _ family _ .  They had done nothing worthy of death.  Their lives were worth more than his.  And yet…

You let him live.

“ _ Get the  _ fuck _ out of  _ our _ town _ .”

You return to the city to an explosion of cheers.

Julia wipes the sweat from your forehead as the Clerics work to pull the arrowhead out from your shoulder.  It’s deep, and it’s barbed.

“Did I do the right thing?” you whisper as you flinch, a sharp tug at the arrow sending a bolt of pain up your spine.

The Cleric mutters something about how leaving it in had kept you from bleeding out.

Julia knows that isn’t what you’re asking.

“I… I don’t know,” she whispers in your ear, taking your hand in hers.  “I hope so.”

But in the weeks to follow, it seemed as though you had.

The Mad Governor did not return.

The arrow had messed up some tendons in your shoulder.  The wound would heal in time, and leave an ugly scar, but you couldn’t lift anything heavy with your right arm until then.  It meant you couldn’t work for a few weeks, which gave you plenty of time to take care of the promise you had made to yourself.  Your arm is still in a sling as make your rounds.  You visit each family alone.  You apologize in person.  You look them in the eyes when you say you are sorry.

Every single one says that they don’t blame you.

You blame yourself.

To this day you blame yourself, but now for other reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think???? I've got maybe one more chapter and an epilogue left in this one. Thank you everyone for your nice comments and kudos and bookmarks, they give me life.
> 
> There have been requests to do a Taako one next, and I'm definitely thinking about it. If you've got scar HCs for Taako, hit me up.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be the last one, I think. Don't worry, it will end on a happy note. It may even go up later today.
> 
> This one has some pretty heavy disassociation going on and major suicidal thinking. I just found out I'm losing my job so this level of dark feels good to write right now.

You heard about the attack days before making it back to Raven’s Roost.

But you couldn’t will time to go faster.  You had to travel at the speed nature allowed you to.

When you arrive home, there’s nothing but rubble.

There is a gnawing in your chest, like something is hollowing you out from the inside.

There had to be some kind of mistake.

There  _ had  _ to be.

When you saw what was left of the shop, there was nothing left inside you.

You don’t feel angry or sad, you just feel  _ numb _ .  Like this was a dream and you were going to wake up.

God you wished you would just wake up.

You stumble to the place where the front door would have been.

This is the first time you consider killing yourself.

What was life without home?  What was life without  _ Julia _ ?  You forge your way forward to the pile of smoldering wood that would have been the staircase up to your bedroom.  The staircase you had seen your wife come down, dressed in white with a crown of flowers on the day of your wedding.  The staircase you had carried her up that evening, to your shared room and to your new life together.

Your home.

You drop to your knees, unable to feel anything but nausea.

Numbly, you realize that everything you’ve ever owned is buried under this rubble.

Your hands move before you are able to think.  Pushing aside wood and stone, you feel like you are disconnecting from yourself.

You’re no longer here.

You’re miles away.

Any second now, a hand was going to grace your shoulder and you would turn and see Julia and Steven, smiling down at you.  It was all a mistake, everything was alright.

You keep digging, not paying attention to  _ what _ you’re pulling aside.

Any second now, you were going to snap back and be sitting in your home, with everything intact and the people you loved.

Your hands are numb but you vaguely feel your knuckles scraping stone.

You keep digging.

You’re no longer concerned with finding anything.  There’s nothing left to find.  You’re digging a grave that you’re going to climb into and fade away.

You’re digging a hole to the center of the earth, and you’re going to throw yourself into it.

The soil is heavy and you are no longer in your body.  You are a machine moving dirt.  Inhuman.  Uncaring.

Unfeeling.

You are bleeding.  You can see that but you don’t stop.  Your knuckles are bloody as you continue to dig down.  Your fingers are shaking but you no longer have control over them.  This hole will be finished.  It will be the last thing you’ll ever make.

You vaguely know you’re barely breathing, but you feel your heart beating heavily and you want so badly for it to  _ stop _ .

Just let everything stop.

_ Please _ .

“Magnus.”

Someone is calling your name but you are continuing to dig your grave.  Someone had to do it, and you had nothing left.

“Magnus, oh my gods.”

A hand on your shoulder snaps you back.  You whip your head around.

It’s Ari.  You’re at eye level with her on your knees, and you see.  She’s lost an eye.  It’s freshly bandaged.  She is looking at you with an expression you don’t understand.

“Magnus…” she doesn’t know what to say.

You put a hand to your face, and it is trembling.

They’re mangled and bloody and she gingerly takes them in her own.

“My god Magnus… my god.”

You can’t talk.  You’re not here.

Magnus died with Julia.  You know that now.

Ari gently leads you away from the ruins of your life.

She’s talking to your empty shell, whispering comforting platitudes.

She takes you to the place where the townsfolk were buried.  She doesn’t know where Julia is, or Steven.  She’s apologizing over and over to you, but you aren’t there to hear it.

She does know where Elion is.

She sits with you at Elion’s mound and begins to bandage your hands.

“Please… say something Magnus,” she pleads.  You’re looking through her.  “I can’t… I can’t stand the idea of you… giving up.”

You hear that, deep inside yourself.  You feel tears on your face.

“What would Julia say?”

You push Ari’s hands away forcefully.

Julia wouldn’t say anything.

Julia is dead.

You stand up and stumble back to your home.

In a haze, you start moving rubble again.  Grabbing whatever you see that’s still in one piece.

A single dish.

Your craftsmen tools.

A battered lantern.

A spare change of clothes.

Your bedroll.

Julia’s…

The locket was her mother’s.  Steven had made it.  You’d never seen inside it, but Julia told you it had an etching of her.  The latch is busted, dented tight against the metal clasp.

You’ll never see inside it now.

You gather all of it, and load it into your wagon.  You dump your chair you had taken with you to Neverwinter onto the ground.

You wouldn’t need it where you were going.

You can’t account for what exactly happened next.

Day’s later, in an inn, you come back to your senses.  You are standing above a washbasin, undoing the bandages wrapped around your hand.

Your knuckles are raw and bleeding.

They take weeks to heal.

But you never really  _ fully _ heal.

You died that day.

Your heart is buried in an unmarked grave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taako is getting one of these too, send me scar HCs on tumblr and I'll write something based on them if they fit!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing worth warning about, everything is either from canon or referenced earlier.

Your name is Magnus Burnsides.

And you remember  _ everything. _

Until this moment, you had viewed your life as a singular thing.  A series of memories that had painted themselves onto your skin, where everyone could see.  You were an open book, and you remembered it well.

But now, as the ichor of the Voidfish’s child enters your stomach, you realize that this was  _ impossibly untrue _ .

You valued your scars as a symbol of a life lived.  A life still living.  A singular moment in time.  One human life.

But you had lived  _ many _ lives.

So many lives.

Even now, you were in a body that had not lived through what you had been through.

Looking at your hands, which are unblemished and smooth, you know this version of you… this pure and untouched version, has existed before.  You have not always been scarred.

Your mind goes backwards from this moment.

A slice on your naked belly as you try to escape unseen foes.

A stab wound through the shoulder when you emerge from your pod.

These were new to  _ this _ body, but there were others.  Older ones, burned up with your former self.

A cut on the small of your back from your best friend on the day she got engaged.

A scrape on your chest from drunkenly falling out of a tree after a few bad decisions.

A crescent shaped scar on your finger that reminds you of home and family.

A long-healed rash that you were cured of with the power of patience and nail polish.

A wound, infected and raw, that left you feverish and shivering on a cold winter night.

A sickly cut across your stomach that would have killed you if fate hadn’t intervened.

A pair of mangled hands, bleeding from the knuckles after trying to dig your own grave.

A split in your lip (and a missing tooth) from a frightened deer that you were trying to help.

A grazed shoulder and a deep wound where the arrows of your enemies had pierced you.

A face peppered with glass, carefully cleaned and quickly stitched up by your lover.

A tree of burns spread up your body that rallied a city to your side to overthrow a tyrant.

A callus on your finger from when the love of your life taught you something precious

A scratch from a frightened kitten on a stormy night that never quite healed right.

And still others, not as memorable, from fights and arguments and hot pans touched too soon and years of manual labor.

And further back still, to the you before you were you.

The scars that lasted only a little while before you were reset.

Deep cuts from hard labor.  Broken bones and torn skin.  Burns from hot  _ and _ cold.  Black eyes and split knuckles and scraped knees and lost teeth.  

Defensive wounds, protecting the people you loved.

Always protecting the people you loved.

You had experienced all of it a thousand times over.

Your body was new, but your  _ spirit _ was old.  Over 100 years had passed since you set out from your home- your  _ real _ home.  The home that doesn’t exist anymore.

You are overwhelmed with the memories of  _ thousands  _ of scars.

Thousands of moments, both good and bad.

Tears are welling up in your eyes because it’s  _ so much _ to take in.

A life in service of those you had loved.

A body that you had put on the line and lost time and time and  _ time _ again.

You realize with a swell of pride that you wouldn’t change anything.

There was only one life you could live.

Your mind goes back further.  To your very  _ first _ scar.

Way back.  Back to the planet with two suns and a purple sky.  Your  _ home _ , before IPRE and the Starblaster and The Hunger, and impossible worlds, and  _ this _ world, and Raven’s Roost, and Julia, and Phandalin, and Taako and Merle, and the base on the Moon.

You are a young boy, and you are lying in the grass.

This was the moment.

This was the moment that you knew what you were meant to do.

The other kids were older than you, bigger than you, but you couldn’t stand by and let them torture an animal like that.  It wasn’t right.  You had to do something.

They took you down pretty handily.  There were three of them, and only one of you.  But it was enough to give the dog time to get away.

There is a cut on your face, on your jawline and cheek, that would eventually scar over.  Skin split open from contact with an older kid’s boot.  It’s your first time getting hurt like this, and it certainly  _ hurts, _ but you feel good about it.

It’s a good pain.

You’re not ashamed of what you did, but the scar makes people uncomfortable.  You’re a rough and tumble boy, and the scar keeps that image in people’s minds  When you start working at IPRE, Davenport suggests covering it up with some facial hair.  A more grown up look for a more grown up job.

Turns out, you can grow some really amazing sideburns pretty quickly.

Your name is Magnus Burnsides, and you have lost your body over 20 times.  You’ve been restitched and regrown and rewound and restarted and  _ reborn _ .

Your scars are gone, but the memories remain.

You’ll hold onto them forever because they made you into who you are.

They made Magnus Burnsides.

Defender of the weak.

And as you come back to your senses in Lucretia’s secret vault, you realize that it is time for you to do it one last time.

Because you are a protector.

And the world needs to be saved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for all the nice comments and kudos, they've been getting me through a really rough patch.
> 
> Hopefully you all like how this ended! I didn't think it was appropriate to end it any other way. There's still so many questions i NEED ANSWERS for (GRIFFIN) but this felt like the right way to do it given what we know.
> 
> I'm also going back and editing the very first chapter to make it canon compliant.


End file.
